


Better alone (than lonely)

by qgmon



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Cold to soft Eve, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Pain, Soft Villanelle - Freeform, and painful, post-Ep 6, so much pain, so very soft, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:14:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24271906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qgmon/pseuds/qgmon
Summary: It really fucking hurts.It’s definitely your arm. It’s Dasha’s half-decent stitching and the quiet hiss caused by your wound’s brief contact with the disinfectant. You really hope it does not scar badly.No. It’s your head. All because of your brain screaming at you and spinning at a ridiculous speed; turning one hundred and eighty degrees per second, while also managing to somehow be so empty and eerily quiet that you almost feel like you’re sat alone in a field full of nothing but layers and layers of snow all at the same time. Much like cold Russian winters – you shudder at the thought.It hurts. Not the stab wound in your arm, not your brain from overthinking.Your heart.•••Post-episode 6 pain
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 32
Kudos: 202





	Better alone (than lonely)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for my best friend and her only request was ‘a whole ass cold bitch Eve - until she isn't anymore because I'm still soft’.
> 
> This one might hurt a little but then I’m right there waiting with blankets and hugs. Enjoy.

_Nobody wants to be the one to walk away._   
  


It hurts.

Sure, you’ve had it worse before. A simple scissor stab and a few stitches is not something you’d usually be wound up about but somehow the sensation is much more painful this time. It’s bad enough that you’re struggling to actually decipher whether it’s your arm or your head that’s throbbing. It’s making it near-impossible for you to move, think, plan ahead.

This is bullshit. Where is Konstantin?

You need to get out. You probably shouldn’t have mentioned wanting to leave to Dasha but you’re so far past caring at this point that nothing even matters any more. She can try and stop you if she wants – you’ll manage to slip away yet again. Hell, you’d rather take a train to Russia or London or Paris, or even fly all the way to Cuba - wherever in the world Konstantin is - and find him yourself. You would rather make him take you along, with or instead of Irina, than stick around to be a part of whatever game Dasha and Hélène, whose name definitely isn’t Hélène, are playing. Whatever twisted situation the Twelve are getting you into instead of giving you what you asked for. Scratch that – you _demanded_ it. That was the one and only condition you had: you will kill for them again if, and only if they make you a keeper. Let you stand tall and influential, out there giving orders to the likes of assassins like your past self. To people like Raymond and Anton and every handler in every single corner of the world. You were supposed to become their boss, the superior piece of this entire puzzle. Instead, you found yourself being presented with yet another fucking poster. Romania. Politicians of high-importance. _Yet another_ person you need to get rid of for some reason, doing the same shit you were doing when you were not a keeper but now.. as a keeper?

‘ _You’ll get all the material perks you were expecting. What more do you want?’_

Who the hell do they think you are? You already have the best clothes and an incredible house and every first class travel arrangement you could ever ask for. You were loud and clear about what you wanted: power. Not another bottle of fancy champagne you’ve had a million times before. Enough with the bullshit. Somebody somewhere is not taking you seriously and that’s not what you got yourself into this mess for. You are not a joke. You will not be pushed around, not any more. They need to finally understand that. If not – it is time for you to go. You are tired of all the killing when you’re being told how to do the killing. Tired of all the people who try to pull your strings, only to have their own strings tied so tightly that they cannot move any more themselves. And they don’t even realise it. One step in the wrong direction and it cuts through your skin. Two more – you’re done for.

Knowledge is power and you know all this now, the same way you knew it was time for you to kill your mother. Now you also know that it is time for you to leave it all. Runaway just how Konstantin is planning to, leave everything behind and forget about it. The clothes, the apartment. Even her.

It really fucking hurts.

It’s definitely your arm. It’s Dasha’s half-decent stitching and the quiet hiss caused by your wound’s brief contact with the disinfectant. You really hope it does not scar badly.

No. It’s your head. All because of your brain screaming at you and spinning at a ridiculous speed; turning one hundred and eighty degrees per second, while also managing to somehow be so empty and eerily quiet that you almost feel like you’re sat alone in a field full of nothing but layers and layers of snow all at the same time. Much like cold Russian winters – you shudder at the thought.

So you close your eyes and start replaying everything else behind your lids. Just like a movie, there’s you – packing up your amazing outfits and leaving the rest stashed deep down into the darkest corners of your closet. You’re walking; quickly moving all the way forward and never looking back, not even once, to say goodbye. It hurts. Not the stab wound in your arm, not your brain from overthinking. Your heart.

Bullshit. Bullshit bullshit bullshit _bullshit-_

Bull-shit.

You run your fingers through your unkempt hair – honestly, when was the last time you brushed it properly? You try to breathe in more air, heavy sighs following each and every breath you take because you’re not sure whether your lungs have shrunk or if they’re just being really resistant to oxygen today. Either way, you need to keep going before you pass out, if the black dots that have begun clouding your usually pristine vision are anything to go by. One thing is certain – you cannot stay here even a second longer. You need to leave, right now. Closing your eyes you try to focus, Villanelle, _focus_ , where do you need to go first? You remember having a brief chat with Irina on the swings, before you took her for a ride – that was a lot of fun and even let you forget about all these stupid feelings for a moment; you should definitely do it again sometime. She told you that _her dad_ was in London. For some reason, which neither of you knew anything about. Sneaky Konstantin. That is probably for the best, though. You don’t really want to go to Russia again. London it is.

•••

London St. Pancras is as rammed as usual when you step off the train. Hundreds of people scattered around you, each one of them in a hurry, shoving and pushing, trying desperately to get through the gates before everyone else. How stupid. You stand still. There’s no point in running; if Konstantin is here, he will not be leaving without you.

All you need to do is get a bus from the station and relax on your twenty-minute ride to his dingy little flat in Islington and then _voila!_ You’re done. Then you can just grab your bags and follow his lead and not think about what you’re leaving behind anymore and definitely not think about red double-deckers in London and who you could meet there and what happened in one of them, once, and how it stirred something in your chest; poked at your heart with such force that it almost jumped out of your throat instead of the barely-there ‘oh’ you managed to breathe out. You won’t think about that ever again, no. Konstantin has a plan and perhaps for the first time in your life you’re completely fine to just sit back and follow.

You walk to the bus stop, St. Pancras International (Stop S), and join the queue. There’s something quite relaxing in being able to just stand there and wait. Calm before the storm, or whatever it is people call it. You know, the time right before they get themselves into trouble and then shit hits the fan. That’s a way better expression, you think.

You check which bus you need to get, trail your finger down the timetable: 214 to Moorgate. The next bus is in five minutes, give or take. That is fine. You have time. You are as patient as you are excited and you are definitely not scared. At all.

Looking around, you follow the route of every single bus intently, just in case he’s on one of them and you need to catch him. You’ll never know what Konstantin gets up to when he’s away from you. There’s a 390 and a 91 and a 73 and another one you can’t quite make out the number of stopping on the opposite side of the main road. You squint: 205 to Paddington. The motor is suddenly off and the bus just stands there for a second; you’re almost intrigued but you can sense that your ride is just about to arrive, too. Which one to look at, which one to choose, which one should you pay attention to?

It happens in a split second. A moment of clarity and incredible vision – you see it through dusty windows. She’s getting off the 205, curls bouncing just below her shoulders, up and then down into the hood of her raincoat. It can’t be it can’t be it could be it must be _it is_.

The vehicle takes off and right there, standing in the opposite St. Pancras International (Stop A), is Eve.

Your 214 comes. You let it go.

Your ride goes but she’s not moved an inch, She saw you, too. Looking right at you, she’s too far for you to figure out what she’s thinking. You feel your legs moving all of a sudden and instead of trying to find Konstantin you are now walking the thirty-or-so meters it takes for you to get to her. You shouldn’t, really. But you do.

Maybe this will be your last goodbye. And then you’ll walk away for good.

She looks up at you when you finally reach her. You offer her a small smile but she doesn’t return it. Her expression is blank, unreadable. There was a time when you were so good at understanding what Eve was thinking. Not now, it seems.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asks, voice cold. Her words sharp like the knife you once used to slit Aaron Peel’s throat in front of her. Perhaps she went back there and took it.

‘I was on my way to find Konstantin but I saw you. Thought I’d come and talk.’

‘Right. Well, great chat. You’re free to go.’

‘Eve-’

‘Goodbye, Villanelle.’

She turns to walk away and you want to grab her by her arm and turn her around and beg her to stay or maybe come with you because you’ll be gone soon and when you leave – you’ll leave forever; but you don’t really have the strength any more.

Tears start gnawing at your eyes like acid.

‘Eve, please,’ you start, words barely above a whisper, ‘wait.’

She stops. Raises an eyebrow, waiting.

‘That’s what I wanted to talk about. I just-.. I wanted to say goodbye.’

‘I think I already did that for you-’

‘I’m leaving,’ you interrupt her, ‘Konstantin has a plan. To runaway from everything and leave the Twelve. I am going with him.’

You smile.

Eve’s expression doesn’t change.

‘It will be an adventure.’

Five. Ten. Twenty-three seconds of silence, of Eve not responding, of you biting your bottom lip and scratching the inside of your left palm with your fingernails because _what is she thinking what is she thinking why is she not saying anything_?

‘What?’ she finally asks.

You’re confused. Was she not listening to what you were just telling her? That’s rude, Eve.

‘I said I am leaving with Konstantin, it will be an-’

‘Adventure, yes, I heard you. What do you mean you’re leaving the Twelve?’ she shakes her head in disbelief, ‘I thought you were being promoted. _Going up in the world, untouchable,_ all of that _._ ’

You _think_ she’s imitating Dasha with her last sentence and you’re not sure how that would even be possible because how in the world would Eve know who Dasha is? But if she _was_ , she would be pretty good. Not a bad impression.

‘How do you know that?’

‘It doesn’t matter how I know what I know, okay?’ she snaps; you flinch, ‘I’ll ask you again: what do you mean you’re leaving the Twelve?’

‘I am done with it, Eve.’

‘You- seriously? You really expect me to believe that?’

‘I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m leaving.’

Your eyes are burning now. Fucking tears.

‘Bullshit,’ she whispers and takes a step forward, leaning towards you, ‘bullshit. You expect me to believe this again?’

‘Eve, I am not lying, I-’

She starts laughing, mocking. The tears are rolling down your cheeks now, scolding every bit of skin they touch in their wake.

‘Eve, please, I am serious.’

‘You’re an asshole. A _fucking_ asshole, Villanelle. _Oksana_. Whoever you are.’

The look in her eyes is the same one you used to have when you were sure you did not feel anything; when you were numb and untouchable. The days when _nothing_ was your one best friend. How long ago was that again? You can’t even keep your eyes dry now.

‘Do you really believe you can come into people’s lives, into _my_ life and ruin every single thing you touch. And then what? You think you can just leave because you’ve suddenly decided that your newest persona, whoever you’re pretending to be now is done with all the murder for the day? That you can walk away just like that? Well fuck you.’

Eve’s words are dripping with venom and yours are stuck in your throat.

‘You’ve never lost anything in your life because you never cared enough to have something meaningful in the first place!’ she sneers, head shaking.

‘You forget that I know you for what you are. I’ve _seen_ you. To think I believed you were more than-.. that you actually felt, cared about m-… _no_.’

She looks at you like she hates you and if you thought you were hurting before – you were deeply mistaken. It’s no longer your arm or your head or your heart, it’s your whole being now and it’s so painful it’s making you sick. You’re uncomfortable and humid and hot and freezing, and you want to slither out of your body and shed your skin and find a new home, a shell, and just crawl in there and stay.

‘You’re not the one leaving, Villanelle. You’re not the one with that choice. I am.’

But Eve is not walking away. After everything that’s happened, she’s standing her ground; determined. She’s waiting for you to make a move. Maybe shoot her. She’ll possibly stab you. Maybe you’ve done it all before and perhaps you should never have done it. There’s one thing you’re sure of, though – you definitely won’t do it again. It’s your time to turn around and leave her behind now.

You’re just so tired.

‘I have to go,’ you’re squeezing your eyes shut as hard as you can; perhaps she won’t notice?

‘Goodbye, Eve.’

‘Are you?..’

You turn around and walk away – fast. One step forward and another, and another and another and-

She grabs your arm and stops you. You don’t move. Instead, you let the tears fall down to the ground.

She will definitely notice. God, you’re _sobbing_.

‘I-, _Villanelle_.’

You’re trying desperately to wipe your face but Eve is holding you tight, staring at you in disbelief, like she’s seeing you, seeing _through_ you again. Just like she knew she could.

‘It’s all bullshit, you know.’

‘What is?’

‘The promotion. Them, making me a keeper,’ you scowl, ‘it’s just bullshit.’

‘Why would you-.. did Konstantin tell you that?’

He did, actually. You never listened.

‘They said I was promoted and gave me champagne, and then they made me kill someone again. One of those shitty postcard things, like always. That’s not what I wanted.’

Eve bites her lip. She wants to listen and she’s really trying not to say anything, you can tell. The bolts in her brain are turning at such a high speed you can almost hear her think.

‘I wanted to be powerful. That’s what they promised. But they lied,’ you look at your hands and whisper, ‘they always lie.’

She doesn’t say anything. She takes your hand in hers, wipes a tear off your cheek with her thumb and then she pulls you in to hug you. She presses her body into yours and you melt, completely. Eve smells amazing and you wonder if there’s a way you can inhale her into your memory forever. For when you leave. For when you want to feel the same way you’re feeling now – warm and humid and freezing and cool and burning hot but in a _good way_ this time.

Eve holds you like that for a while. Hours, days – maybe years. It doesn’t matter. Even if it is just a minute – it means enough to last a lifetime.

‘Let’s go get a drink,’ she offers.

You smile into her curls.

‘Okay.’

•••

Eve orders a gin and tonic. You buy a bottle of Laurent-Perrier. She snorts at this but it’s not all for you, you tell her.

‘You are welcome to have some.’

‘Thanks,’ she rolls her eyes. _Funny_.

She looks at you like she doesn’t hate you anymore and perhaps – you hope – she never did. You pour her a flute too, just in case. For when she changes her mind.

Eve tends to do that.

‘So…’ she clears her throat, ‘is there anything you want to talk about?’

You shake your head, _no_. Russia, your mother, Hélène, the mess you made in Romania, the scissors, the stitches. _Not yet_.

‘Okay,’ Eve takes a sip; you do too, ‘where are you going? With Konstantin.’

‘I don’t know. Cuba?’ you shrug. You’re not sure Irina’s intel was the most accurate and trustworthy.

‘Really? Cuba?’ she laughs.

Her voice is light and airy now. It’s nice.

‘Yeah, I am not really sure about that one.’

‘I’ll say.’

She drinks again. You do too.

‘Eve?’

You keep your eyes down, twisting and turning and playing with your fingers and looking anywhere but at the woman in front of you. You really want to grin, though.

‘Mm?’

‘Why did you kiss me?’ pause, ‘On the bus.’

You look up to meet her dark eyes. They’re shimmering and full of life, and there’s something there that definitely looks like one of those good kind of emotions, a _nice_ feeling. You think that she might be grinning inside, too.

‘Because.’

‘Because?’ you’re pushing your luck because Eve doesn’t talk about this does she?

Still, you have nothing to lose. You’re leaving her anyway.

‘Because maybe I don’t.. hate you.’

You pull a face. A really _reaaaally_ ridiculous one. What kind of an answer is that?

‘That was terrible, Eve. I don’t _hate_ that gin and tonic you’re drinking but I don’t go around kissing it.’

‘Well, maybe you should.’

‘Well maybe _you_ should-’

You don’t know what Eve should be doing because what she’s doing right now is actually fine, truly and _definitely_ fine and she should _keep_ doing exactly what she’s doing because she’s cut you off and now she’s kissing you.

She parts her lips a little, warm and inviting, and you slide your tongue down her bottom lip and into her mouth carefully. She hums and meets you halfway. You can taste her gin and tonic and maybe you _would_ go around kissing it more often if it was on Eve’s lips. This is better than your champagne and better than that time on the bus – you really hope she will not head-butt you now. It’s better than anything else you can remember and you suddenly realise that you’re absolutely fine with leaving everything behind. All of your clothes and the money and the apartment but not her. Not Eve.

_It’s gone too far to ever go back, you know I wouldn’t give you up but baby I don’t want that._

She might be reading your mind because she breaks the kiss and pulls away, just an inch, for just a second:

‘Don’t leave.’

‘I have to, I can’t do it any more, Eve-’

‘No, no. Leave the Twelve.’

She looks at you now, her gaze so intense it’s piercing through your skull, you’re certain.

‘Don’t leave _me_.’

You bite your lip.

‘How?’

‘I don’t know,’ she smiles, ‘but we’ll figure it out, okay?’

You’d really like that. Please please please please _please-_

You lean in to kiss her now. Quick but deep and filled with every single one of the emotions you’ve felt since you met her. Eve can have everything, own every little corner of your mind and you. It’s all hers, all _for_ her.

‘Okay.’

**Author's Note:**

> Top lyrics and title are from Lykke Li's 'Better Alone' and I've squeezed in a lyric from 'Still' by The Japanese House somewhere near the end, too.
> 
> Comments shine brighter than the sun - light up my world please. x


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